


One Man's Trash

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Dean, First Meetings, Fluff, Homeless Castiel, Humor, Insecure Dean, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Teacher Castiel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, dumpster diving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That is, until a man stops in front of the corridor like an alleycat. He stares at Dean - as much of him as he can see shrouded behind a dumpster, anyway - with eyes as blue and piercing as an explosion of fireworks going off next to an animal shelter. Just when Dean thinks he’ll keep walking, his whiskers, which stick to his face like individual brown tacks, move only when his large pink lips curve into a woeful smile.</p><p>"I've been there."</p><p>Dean nearly shakes again at the depth to his voice, then glances down, remembering he's standing in no one's treasure. "Oh," he laughs nervously, "I'm not homeless, I swear. Just an artist."</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Man's Trash

**Author's Note:**

> Someone's going to crack this joke, so I'll do it for you: Yes, because I am DESTIEL TRASH.

There's only one other place Dean can get all the shit, piss, and moaning from his day job.

The smell hits him straight on like a speck of grease from a hot pan. He's got one hand covering his nose while the other sifts through the three aforementioned perks of life. Literally, he's knee-deep in garbage. Metaphorically, he's searching for something that'll transform his idea into reality.

He has everything already, he just needs a-is that a condom? More importantly, is that a _wet_ condom he just picked up? Dean plucks it out with the light pinch of his fingers and throws it overboard with a full-body shake. Gotta shimmy off the syphilis.

That _might_ have just turned him off guys for good.

That is, until a man stops in front of the corridor like an alley cat. He stares at Dean - as much of him as he can see shrouded behind a dumpster, anyway - with eyes as blue and piercing as an explosion of fireworks going off next to an animal shelter. Just when Dean thinks he’ll keep walking, his whiskers, which stick to his face like individual brown tacks, move only when his large pink lips curve into a woeful smile.

"I've been there."

Dean nearly shakes again at the depth to his voice, then glances down, remembering he's standing in no one's treasure. "Oh," he laughs nervously, "I'm not homeless, I swear. Just an artist."

"Oh," the man replies, long, slender fingers falling into a dark haystack of hair. _He's_ embarrassed. Not the guy in a black tank top and off-brand jeans sifting through Johnny's leftovers, the one who looks ready to lay off more people than he hired. "I'm sorry, I just assumed. Not that you _look_ homeless—"

Dean hops out of his one-man ship. "It's alright," he says, "Dean. I would offer my hand, but..."

The man chuckles, a sound richer than most of his art supplies, lending out his hand anyway. "Castiel.” Castiel does this little swivel with his head. Dean thinks he's hiding a blush until he gestures to the dumpster. "What are you trying to find? Anything I can help with?"

"Ah," Dean sighs, though it comes out as a wheeze, "something large and hard is preferred. But I'll be happy with a strong piece of cardboard if all else fails."

Castiel grins. "I said the same thing not too long ago. Happy to help.”

He steps forward, but Dean stops him with a raised hand.

"Hold up. Seriously?"

"What?" Dean ignores Cas in favor of drinking him in beyond his physical grace: the stubble, stained red hoodie, the khakis… God, he felt so stupid.

“It’s alright,” Cas says, as if reading his mind. Though, as peels off his jacket and throws it over the can—and wow, _okay_ , there’s an arc of tanned skin just above his short-sleeve green undershirt—Dean realizes he’s accepting an apology for something else entirely: “It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”

Dean’s mouth runs wordlessly as he watches Cas’s legs swing over the slimy rail with the grace of an archer’s bows. Castiel lends his hand out to Dean to help hoist him back into the trash, adding, “I used to be a teacher.”

Dean finally wills himself to stop staring, shifting instead to a bruised red apple underneath his boot. The irony eases his nerves a little as he replies, “Really? What grade?”

“First,” Cas replies, smiling wistfully. “They’re so good at that age. Do you have any kids?”

“No,” Dean laughs before thinking back to when he was going strong with his high school sweetheart, Lisa Braeden, and her seven-year-old son, Ben. Then she found Matt, and Dean found art. “I mean, I’d like to, but I can barely support myself.”

“I understand. It hasn’t always been easy for me, fiscally or politically, that’s for sure,” Cas comments, tossing an armful of cans over the edge. There’s no indication in his voice for pity, which Dean respects. “So I like to help out where I can.”

“Politically?”

“Yeah, I was going to run for superintendent until I got the boot.”

Dean tries picturing Cas clean-shaven in a tuxedo and possibly a trenchcoat to guard against the harsh winds, but it’s quite the task. He has a feeling Cas would keep the messy hair, though. “Well you definitely have my vote,” he says, pausing to raise a mock-wary brow. “Unless you’re planning on cutting art.”

Cas chuckles, “Definitely _not_ going to cut art.”

“Alright. Well, you still got my vote.”

“If only it were that easy to swoon people. Politics can be so complex.”

“You sure?” Dean asks, “Last I checked, an Oompa Loompa’s running against _Legally Blonde_ ’s mom for President. But that’s more the current state of humanity than anything.”

This earns a small smile out of Cas. “What kind of art do you do?”

“Anything that inspires me medium wise, really. Why do you ask?”

Cas’s digging comes to a halt after he shrugs. “I only suggest it because I know this alley inside and out, and I would have snagged what you’re looking for a long time ago. And if you really mean _any_ medium, you can use the dumpster itself. You can make a mural out of it.”

A huff of dust from Dean’s internal lightbulb escapes through his nose. “That’s actually not a bad idea. You think it’ll turn out?”

“If you’re a true artist, your limit’s the sky.” Cas squeezes in a laugh, “Or, in this case, the lid of the dumpster.”

Dean turns to Cas with a small, toothy smile. He’s probably said the same thing to his first grade class, but there’s something about the sincerity in his tone. No one close to him—which is a very select few—has seen Dean’s projects, let alone knows he _has_ projects outside of mechanical engineering. It kind of just started with collecting scrap metal from Bobby’s yard, and keeps accumulating in the spare bedroom of his two bedroom apartment with whatever else he can find. Hearing someone believe in him, it’s nice.

“Hey, anything that gets me out of digging through trash any longer than I have to,” Dean remarks, climbing off the dumpster. He puts up his hand to help Cas, who ends up stumbling over the rail, arms tangling clumsily around Dean’s neck as Dean’s hands fumble around his waist.

“Uh, heh, sorry.” Cas doesn’t bother moving. Just bites his lip, as if to tame the redness spreading to his cheeks.

Dean has a blush of his own that lights up the tips of his ears like a confused Rudolph. Cas is warm. He smells good, too, like Crest toothpaste and a PB&J. “Uh, do you wanna… maybe come inside?”

“Oh, I don’t think that would be—”

“No, no, I mean to see my art,” Dean corrects with a laugh, “I think it’s about time I had a showing, anyway.”

Cas smiles, a big, gummy thing with so much intensity, it could melt the toughest pastels. “Lead the way.”

***

A year later, the dumpster is officially open for viewing in the same alley. On one side is the face of a man with dark messy hair, piercing blue eyes, and a full set of lips. On the other, a man with fan fiction green eyes and a toothy grin. One side panel is spray-painted black and lined with speckled white chalk and cursive that reads, _Objective everyday: Love Dean Winchester._ On the other is the severed hood from a black ’67 Chevy Impala that reads: _Staying for the whole ride_ in “stripper red paint”, as Dean once put it.

The lid of the dumpster remains undecorated, since it’s being utilized as a tally board for how many months they’ve been together. Dean’s holding out for the whole thing being covered in little white marks. Like Cas had said a year prior, the sky’s the limit.

 

 

 


End file.
